


Try To See It My Way (We Can Work it Out)

by Ijustwannaread



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Protective Katsuki Yuuri, Protective Victor Nikiforov, Romance, Russian Skating Family, it really is just pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23446234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ijustwannaread/pseuds/Ijustwannaread
Summary: Yuuri and Victor settle into life in St. Petersburg together.  (In which Victor is the long-time president of the Protect Yuuri Katsuki Club, and Yuuri is starting his own Protect Victor Nikiforov Association)
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 7
Kudos: 204





	Try To See It My Way (We Can Work it Out)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twinfinite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinfinite/gifts).



i.

There is surprisingly no melodrama when Victor loses his phone. In fact, Victor isn't even the first person to notice it's been missing.

“Victor, Yuri has been texting me that you haven't responded to him for days. Could you just respond, please?” Yuuri mumbles this through layers of cloud-like down comforters he's encased in. Yuri has sent him five messages this evening, each angrier and less coherent than the last.

Victor is in the bathroom, presumably nearing the completion of his lengthy night routine. The water is running, so Yuuri hopes that Victor is washing his face for the last time. The bed is never warm enough until Victor is on the other side.

“Mmmm. Is my phone on the bedside table?” Victor calls, the sound muted through the bathroom door. Yuuri leans over to peer at Victor's nightstand, and it's empty except for the sleek lamp and a dog-eared book.

“No.”

The bathroom door opens, and Victor appears. His skin is radiantly clean and he's wrapped in a silk bathrobe which Yuuri knows feels like heaven to be wrapped in. Despite this, Yuuri only feels a small swell of nerves in the pit of his stomach.

“Yictor? When was the last time you saw your phone?”

Victor blinks. His forehead scrunches just a bit as he considers the question.

“A couple days ago?” He guesses. “Let me look.” He makes a show of turning to inspect the rest of the apartment.

“I'll check your gym bag,” Yuuri offers, dragging himself across the room towards Victor's heavy black bag. He's not unfamiliar with rifling through Victor's things, as his coach is shockingly meticulous with packing and very gracious about letting Yuuri use it as a one-stop-shop for things he's forgotten.

As soon as Yuuri admits defeat, Victor returns to the bedroom. He shakes his head, looking mildly perplexed.

“I never really liked that phone anyway,” Victor muses.

“Victor! You haven't even tried looking that hard yet!”

In a last ditch effort, Yuuri pulls up Instagram, and navigates to Victor's profile.

“You posted a story two days ago, at the meet and greet. Have you seen your phone since then?”

Victor just lays down bonelessly on the bed next to Yuuri. A silent moment passes.

“I don't think so.”

It's not even his phone, but Yuuri's heart starts beating faster. If he didn't know where his own phone was, with all of the potentially lost photos and contacts...

“I will call the venue tomorrow and ask,” Victor declares, purely for Yuuri's benefit. He snakes an arm around Yuuri's chest and buries his face somewhere in the crook of Yuuri's armpit. His breathing is already evening out, leaving Yuuri to marvel at the fact that this position is somehow comfortable for Victor.

In hope of relaxing enough to nod off as well, Yuuri can't help but scroll through Victor's Instagram page. He used to do this before he met Victor, too. It's strange, seeing himself in photos there.

Yuuri hadn't seen the most recent post, a photo of him and Victor at the recent skating event. They had posed for a picture with some high-up skating executive. Yuuri could never have posted something this official, but Victor has an actual publicist that he consults with. The caption is in Russian, which Yuuri can only partially read.

Yuuri surprises himself by finding nothing wrong with the photo. Everyone at the event had been welcoming, and appreciative, and very gracious about taking pictures together. Both he and Victor are smiling in a way that looks decently natural. There is nothing stuck in Yuuri's teeth, and the lighting is excellent.

Yuuri spots Chris's comment at the bottom of the picture. He sent three kissing face emojis. Chris was recently verified by Instagram, and has been winkingly smug about it for the last few weeks. Yuuri scrolls through the other recent comments, smiling at the many glowing reviews of their outfits and Yuuri's new haircut (which is actually more like a lack of haircut, but still).

His smile fades when he reads a slew of terribly typed, rude comments. It sends a little well of ice down his core. Even as he scrolls through a collection of truly kind comments, the few mean ones keep sneaking to the top of his mind.

Victor shuffles next to him.

“You got all tense,” he murmurs sleepily, and wraps an impossibly long arm up Yuuri's back to his shoulder, massaging out Yuuri's undeniable stiffness.

Yuuri feels ridiculous. He is an athlete that competes internationally. He's heard far worse insults thrown his from Yuri Plisetsky on a daily basis, and it certainly doesn't phase him anymore. Why can one stupid anonymous internet idiot make him feel this way?

“Nothing. People are jerks online.” Yuuri mumbles, closing Instagram. Victor lifts his head, suddenly more alert.

“Oh?”

“It's nothing,” Yuuri wants this conversation to be over.

“I usually delete negative comments,” Victor says, plainly. “Let me log into Instagram on your phone, I can do it now.”

Yuuri searches Victors face for any sign he's kidding.

“You delete comments?” Victor is the last person in the world Yuuri would expect to have a care in the world about cruel comments online.

“Sure. They aren't worth anyone reading, anyway. Some of them are funny, though. I save screenshots of those.” He reaches for Yuuri's phone, but Yuuri snatches it away.

“Go back to sleep and stay off my phone,” Yuuri protests. On sudden impulse, he gives Victor a long peck on the lips. Victor looks unreasonably pleased, and then buries himself back into the crook of Yuuri's arm.

“I'm finding my phone first thing tomorrow,” he says into Yuuri's skin.

_ii._

Yuuri is gingerly coaxing his skate off of his left foot, bracing himself for the carnage of what he knows is very likely a large blood blister popping on his inner ankle, when Victor's phone rings. Deep into post-practice exhaustion, Yuuri sincerely hopes that it isn't Chris. Every time Chris calls, Victor talks in rapid-fire French for a thirty minutes minimum before dragging Yuuri in for a prolonged cameo.

Practice had been brutal today, as joint sessions with Yurio invariably are. Yuuri's competitive side came with a vengeance, and his bloody feet were today's main casualty. Yurio was beside him doing some painful-looking stretches that Yuuri felt were mostly to convey the point that he, unlike Yuuri or Victor, had youth on his side.

Victor unexpectedly turns and takes the conversation into the hallway, speaking in clipped Russian. Yurio flashes Yuuri a startled look. Victor is not what one might call a private person.

“Did you hear who that was?” Yuuri asks, not for the first time wishing his conversational Russian was improving faster.

“Who cares?” Yurio throws his skates into his bag and taps loudly at his own phone.

Yuuri, recognizing a lost cause, decides to try and distract himself by performing some triage on his torn up foot. The situation warrants a considerable amount of gauze, which he is running low on.

Minutes later, Victor strides back into the locker room breezily.

“Who was that?” Yuuri asks. Victor ignores him entirely, directing his entire attention at Yuuri's bandaged foot.

“Did you disinfect that first?” He demands.

“No, I was going to wait until we got home,” Yuuri protests. Victor just reaches into his own bag and pulls out a designer bag full of enough first aid supplies to run a small town clinic. He kneels in front of Yuuri and begins unwinding the gauze from his foot. The air in the locker room is suddenly oppressive, and even Yurio is surveying the scene without bothering to pretend to text.

“Victor,” Yuuri tries in a low voice, “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Victor replies, winding the gauze back around Yuuri's foot tightly. After a moment, Victor takes a deep breath, loosening his death grip fractionally.

“It was just my publicist,” he explains, tone carefully flat. Yuuri is holding his breath, feeling as though if he speaks he might spook Victor into silence.

“One of my -” Victor trails off and then curses. He asks Yurio a question in such rapid fire Russian that Yuuri doesn't stand a chance of parsing it.

“You mean a sponsor? Geez, you really are getting old Victor, even I've known that word since I was like five -” Yurio says, crossing his arms.

Yuuri tenses. Victor's English is normally as good as his, if not better.

“Thank you, Yurio,” Victor says, sweetly. Yuri snorts. “One of my _sponsors_ decided to break our contract for this year.”

“Why?” Yuuri asks, pulling his foot away and trying to get Victor to make eye contact.

Victor looks up at him and pulls on a smile that looks like it hurts.

“Silly Russian politics. They think that since I'm endorsing a Japanese skater I've given up my Russian pride.”

“That's so stupid!” Yuuri says.

“Those old fuckers,” Yurio agrees.

Yuuri feels ridiculous, but he suddenly wants very badly to cry. It's hard to ignore that he's directly to blame for this. He pulls a fresh pair of socks and his winter boots and tries to gather himself.

“It's fine, Yuuri. Just a photoshoot I get to cancel now.” The edge of bitterness in Victor's voice is clear, even though he obviously wants to disguise it for Yuuri's sake.

Victor stands up abruptly and sweeps over to his locker, throwing his things together with none of the pointed care he usually gives.

Yuuri, poised for a full mental spiral, thinks of all of the new sponsorship deals he's been getting since Victor came on as his coach. A few months ago he'd even had to ask Mari to take over supervision of his “business email” since reading sponsorship offers made his stomach churn, and he couldn't keep up with it all. Yuuri suddenly remembers the last time she'd forced him to look through. He recalls seeing an offer to represent a campaign for some unfamiliar American brand. They'd asked him if Victor might also be available to do a special on their relationship. At the time, he couldn't think of a single thing that seemed more overwhelming and unappealing.

Now, sudden inspiration eclipsing his feelings of dread, Yuuri does a quick scour of his inbox and forwards the message to Victor.

“Ready to go?” Victor asks, pulling his bag over his shoulder.

“Um. Sure?” Yuuri replies, and grabs his own gear. He sends Victor a quick text telling him to check his email before following him through the door.

They walk side by side through the cold hallways. Yuuri tries to maintain casual as he hears Victor's phone ping with the new message notification.

Victor gives the message a cursory look while Yuuri tries valiantly not to suffocate from sheer nerves. He waits, on edge, while Victor opens his mail and scans the message.

“Yuuri? What's this?”

“Well, you always say you want to do a joint photoshoot? With me? We could do this, if you want to,” Yuuri stammers. He watches Victor's expression, which is entirely unreadable.

Yuuri is contemplating throwing his phone off a bridge in order to curb any future impulses when a smile slowly creeps onto Victor's face.

“Yuuri, you hate photoshoots,” he states, eyes searching.

“Well, not always,” Yuuri lies. Victor just smiles wider.

“It sounds fun!” he exclaims, and throws an arm around Yuuri's shoulder with such force that they both weave to the side. Yuuri's heart swells. Yurio grunts in disgust from somewhere behind them.

“I can email them, then.”

Later, Yuuri thinks. Much later.

“Are you sure?” Victor asks.

“Yes,” replies Yuuri, with conviction.

_iii._

Yuuri has witnessed Victor become completely overcome with rapture after trying hot pot for the first time. His Instagram account has more pictures of food than selfies, at this point. Victor is one of the most adventurous eaters Yuuri has ever met. His passion for katsudon is paralleled only by Yuuri himself.

For these reasons, Yuuri is more than a bit surprised that Victor apparently abandons his reverence for delicious food entirely when he's at home.

When Yuuri first came to Victor's apartment, he had thought that the cupboards and fridge were bare was just because of Victor's long absence. Of course, it is partially true, but Victor's fully stocked kitchen turns out to be only slightly more populated. He has groceries delivered each Sunday morning. The same groceries every time. Buckwheat grains, lean chicken, heads and heads of broccoli. Potatoes, tomatoes, a loaf of some austere bread. Baffling amounts of sour cream.

The same, every week.

Of course, Victor offers for Yuuri to add whatever he wants to the list of groceries, which is the sole reason that there is anything remotely interesting in the fridge each week. Yuuri, maintaining meticulously respectful and cautious about his requests, is responsible for their stock of fresh ginger, panko bread crumbs, decent green tea, and the awful American snacks that Yuuri and Phichit both got hooked on in Detroit. Early on, Yuuri managed to swallowed his nerves and offered to help Victor build his spice collection. Victor had been mildly surprised to hear Yuuri's adamant stance on the fact that salt and pepper _do not_ count as spices, but overall highly amenable to the constructive criticism.

Still, having settled into a routine, Yuuri still finds himself missing his mother's cooking more than ever. She always cooked with such care and relish, thoughtful and creative. Watching Victor stir up his dreary morning oats or steam a pile of broccoli into utter submission bears little resemblance to the joy of cooking Yuuri has always known it. Victor cooks like someone might brush their teeth. Without thought, as a chore.

Tonight, Yuuri is stretched out on the couch attempting valiantly not to drool over a daydream about his mother's ginger rice and miso salmon. As a staple during his mid-season training months, Yuuri used to get so tired of it, but now he'd do anything to eat it right now.

Yuuri's mind drifts to Victor's going-away party, when his mother had surprised them with her version of the street dish that Victor had been raving about for weeks. Yuuri misses the way Victor always loudly expressed his absolute joy at trying anything, and he misses watching his mother bask in the appreciation.

Before Yuuri actually drools all over Victor's couch, he is struck by a newfound sense of motivation. Maybe this is Victor's apartment and his way of life, but there is no reason to keep enabling this quiet form of eating only for base survival.

“Victor?” Yuuri calls.

“Yes?” Victor is doing languid stretching routine in the corner, and his reply is sleepy.

“Would you mind if I made dinner tonight?”

Victor cranes his neck up from his child's pose with interest.

“Of course! What do you want to make?” His eyes are already bright with excitement.

Yuuri thinks about this. He hasn't planned that far.

“Something new,” he decides. He has several links on this phone for recipes saved for when he's homesick. He pulls up a moderately complicated noodle dish he's been lusting after for weeks. It looks heavenly.

Victor, having seen the picture from across the room, stands up to stride over so quickly that several of his joints pop. He drapes himself over Yuuri from the back of the couch to get a better look.

“Ooh, yes!” He affirms. “Do we have any of these ingredients?”

“No,” Yuuri says. “I can get them though, if it's not too late.”

“I can come with you,” Victor offers, sinking deeper into Yuuri's shoulder blade. Yuuri, feeling a surge of affection, reaches up and wraps a hand over the nape of Victor's neck. Sometimes he forgets that he can do that, and it's still a marvel.

“Sure,” Yuuri replies, and they unravel themselves for the outing.

Hours later, almost every pot and pan in the apartment is now soaking in the sink. Yuuri and Victor are laying out on the couch once more, this time exhausted and wonderfully full. The noodles had been a little overcooked, and they'd forgotten a couple of steps, but Victor had declared it the best thing he'd ever tried.

The apartment smells like soy sauce, and a new Instagram post captioned “top chef ;)” is newly made and ready to go.

_iv._

“Victor, which of your friends do you want to invite to dinner this weekend?” Yuuri asks, contemplating a potential stop to the liquor store on the way home from practice. If Victor wants to invite Georgi, they're definitely going to need to make a special trip. He only ever wants to drink highly obscure liquors that come in bright colors.

Victor and Yuuri are walking to practice on an unusually bright, sunny Thursday. The good weather had inspired them to plan a get together for the weekend, which Victor doesn't seem to realize will require actual planning.

“Hmmm,” Victor's eyebrows furrow. “Gosha, Yurio, Mila for sure. I can see if Alexi is in town, you haven't met him. Maybe you skated against him once?”

Yuuri thinks back to the Russians he competed against. Outside of Victor, mostly they had blended together in an intimidating stream of surly and quiet competitors that Yuuri avoided eye contact with at all costs.

“I'm not sure,” Yuuri says.

“Which of your friends do you want to invite?” Victor asks. Yuuri looks at him, wondering for a sickening moment if Victor is making fun of him. He doesn't have St. Petersburg friends, just people he skates with. And Victor.

“I don't really...” Yuuri mumbles, before Victor cuts him off with a sharp look.

“What about that girl from the ballet studio that you always text with?”

“You mean Nina?” Nina is an assistant coach in the studio, and is fascinated by the fact that Yuuri learned ballet from Minako, one of her personal heroes. Yuuri had offered to arrange for them to talk with Minako, and they'd ended up exchanging a lot of memes in the process. Nina makes a lot of her own memes. It's wonderful.

“Sure. You want to invite her?” Victor asks.

“I mean, I don't know if I'd call her a friend yet, I don't know her that well...” Yuuri muses. Victor pulls a sour face.

“You spend time with each other and you like each other. I think that means she's your friend, no?”

Part of Yuuri wants to disagree and tell Victor that he's making it all too simple, but a larger part of him recognizes that it might be true.

“And you know,” Victor goes on, “Our rink mates are your friends, too.”

“Well...” Yuuri starts to protest. He can't seem to find an argument.

“Besides, they like you more than they like me.” Victor pouts for effect.

“Victor!”

“Tell me I'm wrong,” Victor challenges, smiling. “Yurio doesn't even like me at all.”

“Yuri doesn't like anyone!”

“And yet he's still our friend,” Victor concludes.

Yuuri can't help but smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Because everything now is totally overwhelming and uncertain, I have taken it upon myself to write the sweetest, least plotty, most loving story that I possibly can. Yuri on Ice is always a source of pure joy, and playing around with the characters is a comfort that I'm thankful to have. 
> 
> Shout out to [twinfinite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinfinite/pseuds/twinfinite) for requesting a fic with scenarios where Victor and Yuuri are protective of one another. 
> 
> If this fic cheers even one person up today, it will have done what I set out to do


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